


renewal

by riddler42



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Consent Issues, Dark!Solas, EXTREMELY unhealthy, F/M, No Smut, Solas Gets His Way and Lavellan Suffers, after the end, but it's not really dealt with or anything so like?, major character death tagged bc it's implied that literally everyone else died offscreen, there is..... absolutely nothing happy about this lol, unhealthy relationship dynamic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-27 03:18:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14416530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riddler42/pseuds/riddler42
Summary: Solas succeeds.An exploration of several what ifs - what if Solas succeeds in taking down the veil and recreating Arlathan, while keeping Lavellan alive and by his side, with a side helping of Lavellan having drunk from the Well and thus being geased to Mythal, whose essence within Solas means... well.





	renewal

It's the only way.

She's debated for hours with Cassandra and Leliana. Tried everything she can think of. Tried everything they can think of - except this. Except killing the man she still loves, even after everything that's happened.

Everything he's done.

And she's the only one, of course. They all knew that from the first. The only one capable of getting close enough to him to strike. Lavellan is absolutely sure he'll know what she's trying to do, regardless, but - he did ask her to stop him. He asked her to try.

He had to know it would come to this.

To her, getting him alone. Unprotected. Unaware.

To him, turning his back on her for the last time.

Only then he says "Stop," and - she does. Her entire body is arrested mid motion, her muscles seizing as they freeze in place. 

It's then that he turns to face her, like he's known she was there all along, and his expression is one of sorrow. "Vhenan," he says, and his voice is full of pain, "stay your blade."

The magic has already fizzled, but she obeys him silently, her body rearranging itself to stand at attention, a soldier before her general. 

"What have you done to me," she demands to know, horrified by her body's compliance.

"I did nothing," he says softly, and comes towards her. "I told you not to drink from the Well, my heart."

She recalls, then, how Flemeth had ordered her to seize Morrigan, and her body had obeyed despite her own intent; how Mythal had laughed when she explained the geas on the Well of Sorrows.

"But - you -"

She can't put the pieces together. 

"The geas - to Mythal -" she says, and Solas cups her face in his hands.

"Would you really have done it, vhenan?" he asks her, thumb stroking her bare cheek.

"Yes," she says - tries to spit it, tries to hate him, but it comes out soft and wistful instead. "It was the only way."

"You misunderstand," he says. His eyes flash silver. "I know how far you will go, vhenan, to protect the people you love. But for yourself - always so hard. So unforgiving."

He tips her face towards him and presses a kiss to her forehead. "Attempting to kill me, I can understand," he murmurs against her skin, "but yourself? I won't allow it."

"No," she sobs, and her knees are weak but her body remains standing, inflexible. "Solas, please, it's not too late -"

He whispers under his breath, puts a palm to her heart, and she cries out. Whatever he's doing, it _hurts,_ hurts like every nerve ending in her body's been set on fire. She can't hear him whispering a string of Elvish endearments in her ear, can't feel him draw her into his arms, can't see the expression on his face; all she knows is the pain.

Whatever it is, it's over quickly, and she comes back to herself held in his arms, a hand on the back of her head, the other stroking her back soothingly. He smells of bitter ashes and sour sweat and something underneath that she knows is just him; the smell that used to calm her now tainted. 

"What did you do?" she asks, her voice cracking. She feels exhausted, utterly wrung out. A small traitorous part of her wants to just sink into his embrace, to let him hold her, let him care for her; wants to throw off the burdens she's been carrying for years and let someone else make the decisions for once.

"Ar lasa mala revas," he says. "Look at me, vhenan."

Her face tilts up and she sees the smile he wears. Not victorious like she expected, but fond.

"Live," he says, and she feels the word wrap around her, binding to her skin like a barrier. "You must live, vhenan, and I would see you live happily."

"How can you say that to me," she demands, and now she _is_ angry, truly angry, "you, of all - you're destroying everything I've ever known, killing everyone I've ever loved -!"

"I know, my heart," he says, "I know. I am a hypocrite, as always. But you can be happy again."

"Never," she spits. She struggles internally to move, to push him away, to wrench out of his arms, but she can't so much as twitch a muscle. "Let go of me!"

He does. Steps backwards, away from her, and raises a conciliatory hand. "You may move freely," he says, and she feels all her muscles loosen so quickly she nearly falls, "but not to harm me - or yourself."

Her faces twists into a scowl, her teeth bared at him in fury. "So that's it, then," she says. "You expect me to just watch while you burn down my world to restore yours?"

"I don't expect, vhenan," he says, and she hates the way he says that word, the way he uses it like a title. "I am sorry, more sorry than you know, for the pain I put you through. But I know now how it hurts to live without you, and I will not do it again."

"Even if I hate you for it?" And that, she spits, watches in satisfaction at the pain on his face when she says it.

"Even so," he answers. "And you will have a long, long time to hate me, my heart."

Her hand went to her chest, where he had put his hand not moments ago, where he'd filled her with a power that threatened to tear her apart. "No," she whispered. "No, Solas, you can't -"

"I did," he confirms. 

She does fall, then, to her knees. She hardly registered that the wailing she can hear is coming from her own body, that her hands are caught up in her hair, trying and failing to tear and rip and shred. He watches her, cool and untouched by her emotion, and she hates him for it, _hates_ him more than she's hated anyone, wants to rip and tear at him -

"I do hate you," she says, and is almost satisfied by the way he flinches at it. But it doesn't shake him for long; his face returns to smooth and impassive in a matter of seconds.

"You may feel however you please," he tells her pleasantly. "It will not change anything."

She feels his words again, sinking into her skin, and she snarls like an animal, launches herself at him, desperate to do _something,_ but her attempt to hit him fails before it's even begun. Instead she's in his arms again, and she's crying and shaking -

A part of her watching clinically from a distance is aware that she's acting like a child whose favourite toy has just been taken away. Behaviour hardly befitting the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, closer of the Breach and killer of Corypheus; _oh,_ she thinks wildly, _if Cassandra saw me now she'd be horrified_ \- but it's all she has left.

"Don't do this," she whispers into his shoulder. "Please, Solas, if you ever really cared about me -"

But when she looks at him, his eyes are cold, and she knows - has known ever since he took the Anchor from her - that she never had a chance of changing his mind.

"Let me at least say goodbye," she says instead.

"And let them judge you?" he asks. "Let them see that you failed, that they put the last shreds of their hope in the only person in the world who could never do what they asked? Let them blame you for a choice you made years ago with no idea of the true consequences? No, vhenan. I will not let you hurt yourself."

"Stop calling me that," she hissed, "I don't want it. I don't want this. I don't want to be your - your glorified concubine -"

She shoves him, then, and he lets her. Stumbles back a step. She balls her hands up into fists and tells him, "I will never forgive you for this."

"I know," he says, and turns to walk away.

Her body follows despite her intent to stay put, and she wonders what she ever did to deserve this torture. She thinks of the stories that will be told in the new-old world Solas is restoring, of the Dread Wolf punishing his nemesis by cursing her thrice over: first making her love him, second by making her immortal, and third by making her serve him for the rest of their long, long lives. She clenches her jaw, and tries to think.

There is no way out of this, she knows. They talked it over for hours, her and Cassandra and Leliana, trying in secret to find a way to turn his path or take his power or force him to stop, all to no avail. His death (and hers, her heart whispers) was the last resort of a desperate, dying people. 

And she has failed.

She wishes she could see them, one last time. She pictures the faces of each of her friends in turn, conjures a scenario in which she got to say goodbye. To beg their forgiveness. They don't answer her. She can't torture herself by pretending they could ever have forgiven her, and she's not allowed to hurt herself by letting them hate her for what she's done. As she knows they would. 

Now all that is left to her is to decide her behaviour in the new-old world.

She could be petty, she thinks. It's always come easily to her. Taunt him at every turn, needle him, make her contempt clear whenever possible. Mock him in front of his servants, his supplicants. Wait for his patience to run out.

But he's a masochist, she knows; he really does hate himself for doing what he believes is necessary. He probably thinks he deserves her disdain; he certainly expects it. She assumes he'll let her say whatever she thinks, and see it as righteous punishment.

Perhaps that's why he's making her live.

She considers taking the high road. She can practically see the logical fallacies he's talked himself into to justify imprisoning her with like this, the same logic the Chantry used to justify imprisoning mages in the Circles. _I'm doing it to protect her,_ he tells himself, _I'm not forcing her to do anything she doesn't want to do; I'm taking care of her; I'm saving her..._

If she gives him the cold shoulder, she thinks, for eternity; if she moulds herself to become a silent doll, uses her every action to remind him that - regardless of his intentions - he's stripped her of all autonomy, that she believes herself nothing more than a plaything to him... well. 

Certainly her self control will need significant work.

She remains a step behind as he takes her to a room prepared for his ritual. She stands where he tells her to stand and waits silently as he walks the circle, his eyes glowing silver, words she does not understand falling from his lips. She closes her eyes and pictures Skyhold. Pictures playing Wicked Grace with her companions. Pictures their smiling faces.

When the Veil falls, it shatters reality.

Or - that's how it feels, anyway. She's on her knees again, gasping from the overwhelming nature of it. She thought she knew - she remembers being physically in the Fade, remembers the Crossroads - she thought she had an idea, an inkling, of what the world with no Veil would be like.

She never even came close.

It's too real; the air itself is swimming in magic and feeling, overwhelming her. It feels like she's underwater. It feels like she's stepped into the sun. She swears she can feel individual dust motes brushing against her skin.

She's crying when Solas comes to her, takes her in his arms, and whispers to her temple, "Sleep, vhenan."

And she does.

***

When she wakes, it's to a world unlike anything she's ever known.

Solas is there. She can feel him before she opens her eyes, feel the swirling mess of emotion and magic that surrounds him, sitting not far from where she sleeps. She can't imagine what he can sense in her.

If nothing else, he must know that she's awake, and so she opens her eyes and looks at him.

He's wearing the same armor he wore when he took the Anchor, took her arm. She holds his gaze, and he smiles at her.

"It's over," he says, and his voice is gentle but his words still cut. "Would you like to see?"

She stares at him and says nothing. The silence stretches between them, and she uses the opportunity to study the aura surrounding him.

He's tense, but she knew that already from the way he's holding himself, from the effort in the smile he wears. He's waiting for her to scream, to throw things, to break something. He expects her to explode. He wants her to, wants her to try to hurt him, just like he's hurt her.

Instead she sits up and swings her legs free of the bed. She's wearing the same thing she wore when he performed his ritual, and she looks down at herself before meeting his gaze significantly.

He gestures to a chest of drawers behind him, and she goes to search for something to wear. The top drawer is filled with her preferred garments, in her favourite colours, russet reds and browns and dark forest greens; the materials feel soft and pliable and yet sturdy.

She searches the next drawer, and the next, until she finds something soft, light, mostly white; her lips tighten when she sees it, and then she starts to dress.

It takes her a while to figure out how it works. She's never worn anything like it before; utterly useless, a pointless garment designed for purely aesthetic purposes. It feels more like she's wrapping a gift than dressing herself. Eventually, though, she stands before a mirror and sees herself: a vision in white, lined with silver and gold, more painting than person.

She turns to face Solas, and waits. 

He stands and comes to her side. Looks. Raises an eyebrow at her. She smiles pleasantly back at him, and it's an effort and a victory all at once.

He offers his arm to her, and she takes it. Lets him lead her from the room.

She spends the rest of the day - the week - the month - by his side. She says nothing. She never stops smiling. 

He shows her Arlathan. Fills her silence with explanations of the work he's done while she slept. It's still overwhelming. She's pretty sure she's in shock.

She focuses on smiling and not saying anything. On trying to keep her feelings within her skin instead of spilling out into the air. She feels like a bubble, ready to burst at any moment. 

She builds a place in the back of her mind, a place which just so happens to resemble the tavern at Skyhold, and populates it with the people she loves. Her advisors. Her friends. She retreats, to a place of safety, and she hides.

"I know what you're doing," he says to her one evening. She's seated on the couch in their apartments - strikingly similar to her room at Skyhold - while he stands at the door to the balcony, not looking at her. "You are only hurting yourself, vhenan."

She looks at his silhouette against the sky. Smiles pleasantly. 

He turns to look at her, and when he comes forward to kneel at her feet it actually surprises her.

"Vhenan," he says, "please."

It's discomforting how his face is most familiar to her like this; distressed and pleading. 

"Why do you insist on making yourself suffer?" he asks. "You poison yourself and wait for me to die; it makes no sense."

She wants to talk, then. Wants to yell and hit him and say _you did this_. Wants to tell him it's not her poison she drank; that if he led her to the well and asked her to partake, how is she to be held at fault for doing it?

His hands are twisted up in the flimsy fabric of her dress, and when she won't answer him he puts his face in her lap and rests there. She puts a hand on his head. 

"I could _make_ you happy," he says.

She stiffens. He could. And there's nothing she can do to stop him if he does.

"I won't," he says, lifting his face to look at her. "I would never, vhenan. I want you to be free, to be yourself, to be happy."

 _How,_ she thinks, _when everyone I love is gone?_

 _What if I asked to leave,_ she thinks, _would you let me?_

His hands tighten. 

She shoves him away, furious. _I knew it,_ she thinks wildly, _how dare you -_

He flinches as he hits the ground, says, "Vhenan -" but she's already at the door.

She wrenches it open and runs. 

She doesn't get far.

 _No,_ he says, in her head, _you don't understand._

She fills her mind with chaos, emotion, a million different thoughts to keep him out.

A hand closes over her arm and he's pulling her back. She lashes out, but her hand clenches and spasms before it can make contact. She cries out.

"Let me _explain_ ," he hisses at her. "It's different without the Veil - I'm not _trying_ to - you don't have the control necessary to keep your thoughts to yourself, I wanted to -"

She's crying, and the worst part of it is that when his arms go around her it's actually comforting. She buries her face in his chest and sobs. He traces patterns on her back, whispers words she can't understand into her hair, holds her like he did when he first told her he loved her. 

"Come back," he says quietly, and when he leads she follows.

***

He explains, after. Not with words, but impressions. By laying them out in the air around him, the aura he projects, and showing her how to read it.

It's how it always was for him, he tells her. For everyone. To have your thoughts and feelings spilling over like water from an overfull vessel, unless you deliberately kept them in check. But the evanuris used it like the Orlesian nobles used their masks, just another way to play the Game. Lack of control meant ridicule, meant anyone could peek into your innermost self. But keeping everything locked within your own skin meant showing weakness, a lack of faith in your own self control; and showing weakness in the Game is tantamount to suicide.

 _That's why you thought we weren't real,_ she thinks, loud and clear, watches his face change subtly. _Because you didn't feel us._

"All but Tranquil," he says quietly. "Yes."

She digs deep, finds every last scrap of pain she's felt in the last few years, and _wallows_. She remembers falling from the Breach, the Anchor pulsing and burning in her arm. She remembers Corypheus trying to tear her arm off. She remembers getting hit by an avalanche, falling down a mine shaft, stumbling half dead through a snowstorm in the middle of the night.

She remembers the look on the Iron Bull's face when he heard himself pronounced Tal'Vashoth. Sera beating a man to death with her bare hands. Cullen throwing a box full of lyrium at her head.

All her, she remembers. All her fault.

"You know that's not true."

She finds anger. Finds a noblewoman at Halamshiral calling her "rabbit". Finds a pompous human mage telling her she wouldn't understand the things she's spent a lifetime learning. Finds Morrigan presuming to have a greater claim to the heritage she's worked her whole life to protect.

She finds him, always. At Crestwood. After Wisdom died. Taking her arm.

"I did give it back to you," he says mildly. She doesn't need to look at him to know how anxious he is to say it.

She's noticed - it was hard to miss - and said nothing. She'd gotten used to the missing limb, she really thought so, and yet when she woke up with it restored it was as if she'd never lost it. 

It's still his, though. Still a sign of the absolute control he has over her now.

"I don't want to control you," he says, agitated. "I only want you to be _you_ , vhenan, however you please."

She can see herself in his eyes, now that he's taught her how, and the sight makes her viciously pleased. She looks like a doll made in sick parody of ancient Arlathan, a creature with vacant eyes and slack mouth dressed in the equivalent of lingerie. She looks like a Tevinter magister's wet dream, the perfect pliable elven bedslave. 

She knows he hates it, and that's the best part.

 _You did this to yourself,_ she thinks magnanimously. _You chose your world over your heart, and now I am lost to you forever._

There's a swirl of other thoughts and feelings behind it, though, and she knows he can feel that too - can feel her longing, her fear, her pain. Pain enough to swallow them both whole.

"Not forever, I think," he says at last. He presses a kiss to her hand and withdraws, taking up his post by the door again. "You've made your point," he says distantly. "If you insist on leaving, I won't stop you."

She wants to. It's what he deserves. But her heart won't let her. It's unhealthy, and self-destructive, and there's no way it can end well, but - he's all she has left.

It does not escape her attention that he's the reason for that, and it doesn't stop her hating it, hating herself, hating him for it - still. She needs the comfort he offers.

"Come here," she says, her voice scratchy from disuse, and he reacts as if she's been stabbed: by her side in an instant, kneeling at her feet again. She puts her hands on either side of his face and bends to press her forehead to his.

 _There is no forgiveness,_ she thinks. _Not now. Not ever._

His response is not in words, but impression. She feels acceptance, sorrow, regret, and yet - the regret is only for her, for how she feels, and not for what he's done.

She tries to respond in much the same way. Puts together her sadness, her regret, her overwhelming sense of loss; her love, her hate, her need.

"Vhenan," he says aloud. "Anything."

She's crying when she kisses him, when she whispers it back against his mouth; the two of them together at the end of her world and the renewal of his.

**Author's Note:**

> some of the ideas about a world without the Veil were inspired by Looking Glass by Feynite; it's incredible and wonderful and sadly incomplete. their depiction of old Arlathan is basically canon, right? so that's what I borrowed from.


End file.
